"puerile" poems
I had as lief be embraced by the portier of the hotel
As to get no more from the moonlight
Than your moist hand.
Be the voice of the night and Florida in my ear.
Use dasky words and dusky images.
Darken your speech.
Speak, even, as if I did not hear you speaking,
But spoke for you perfectly in my thoughts,
Conceiving words,
As the night conceives the sea-sound in silence,
And out of the droning sibilants makes
A serenade.
Say, puerile, that the buzzards crouch on the ridge-pole
and sleep with one eye watching the stars fall
Beyond Key West.
Say that the palms are clear in the total blue.
Are clear and are obscure; that it is night;
That the moon shines.
7.8k
I think it’s important to make peace with your long line of perpetually confused and self-indulgent ancestry once grasping at and fumbling through a life at which they, preceding you, assumed they occupied the centre of and sought to prove this to mostly anyone, with rapacious might and puerile visions of their own success story, which no matter how successful would always only occupy the dark corners of their blood-successors’ historical records of themselves, which is to say you, adding them up with other people who were once important to them and stuffing them into some numerical equation on which they occupy the left, and you the right side of the equal-sign, but all of which exists in the vast and endless vicissitude of spinning void, of which you both (and us all) occupy some cosmic equivalence (and importance) of the universes stray skin-cell, somewhere on the foot perhaps, unconsidered and left alone until we all disappear into the casket of an unrecorded history.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
I had as lief be embraced by the portier of the hotel
As to get no more from the moonlight
Than your moist hand.
Be the voice of the night and Florida in my ear.
Use dasky words and dusky images.
Darken your speech.
Speak, even, as if I did not hear you speaking,
But spoke for you perfectly in my thoughts,
Conceiving words,
As the night conceives the sea-sound in silence,
And out of the droning sibilants makes
A serenade.
Say, puerile, that the buzzards crouch on the ridge-pole
and sleep with one eye watching the stars fall
Beyond Key West.
Say that the palms are clear in the total blue.
Are clear and are obscure; that it is night;
That the moon shines.
3.1k
The Real Poets Here
are small craft
sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines,
employ the spyglass and luck to you,
for them to find
their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste,
yawning greater now by propped up boasts of
ugly shipowners who sin by commission,
national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow,
thinking that is a measure of prowess,
their tubs,
all but empty wordy new container ships,
that are forever lost at sea,
even before leaving port
they,
the real poets,
are the quiet lost lot,
a troop of forgettable ordinary Marines,
the sailors in the engine room toiling,
exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle,
looking to discover unmapped,
invisible poles,
East and West
opening up new passages,
within us,
with new passages
when called to arms,
the real poets
spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne,
upon the blank spaces,
they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided
fertile are the pastures
where they lay low modest lay thinking,
amidst the splendor in the grass
of them
I
proudly will ever boast,
hold them close and ever nameless,
but deep inscribed inside of me
*Ah,
the real poets keep me
whole within the
ever smaller white purity of this narrow space
that has lost the struggle
to contains the
unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of
repetitive sad, sadly repetitive,
puerile singsong cant
that never sings,
can't never please,
but trends to the masses madly
dewdrops of tears,
are my own trees felled,
an acknowledgement that
when I read their unintended homages to humankind,
that when realized,
they speak with great respect,
all quietly scream this whisper...
all this,
that I have written,
and will yet to write,
this is all,
to give
greater glory to all human ability
whose
sole purposed to fill us,
wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort,
or urgently comfort us when none else can,
these are my friends,
the real poets here*
god keep you well
my trite words insufficient
so I gift you
some words worthy from
Wordsworth
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
*peace
please*
private property..
intruder hurtled over
seeking who knows what
screaming obscenities
perfect pitch..
find little solace
but by going within
hide well beneath veneers
possible perfection..
but with one
so very far away
loss near calamitous
pardon presumption..
get over discomfort
pick up sad face
work with it
passable poetry..
may reveal a layer or two
if the inner eye ready
shove preconceived away
puerile pretence..
try to prove points
only to efface the truth
lose bits of the light
petty prisons..
all just deadly excuses against living
get locked in by the self
unlock the cell, throw key away
*please..
peace*
S T, 12 June 2013
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
I remember when we were young,
and the shark fin made by falling water droplets
from the back-and-forth sway of windshield wipers
on our car window would scare you
Because you thought that the spaces we couldn’t reach
would form monsters in their crevices,
and I would laugh and roll my eyes,
like big brothers did.
And I remember how,
on nights when we would sleep over at grandma’s,
the pitter-patter of our puerile feet on hardware floors
was the only sound to be heard.
Shadows formed where the beam of my flashlight hit,
adorned with fading Spiderman stickers and the like-
and you would squeal under my whispered protests
because of the unfurling octopus limbs
that were the leaves of a potted plant.
We grew older, and so did my suspicions,
as you crept out of the realm of childish make-believe
and into a world that even when showcased in daylight was a nightmare.
Demons, from the deep fire that enflamed the world’s core
tried to penetrate the surface, according to you.
But as their hands reached forth out of the earth’s skin,
they curled in agony, the evil of the earth halting their conquest.
They fossilized and shriveled in autumn’s wake,
gray and deadened fingertips just unassuming tree branches,
the perennial reaches just fibrous spindles blurring in the sunlight.
The world held prospects despite your macabre claims,
And as we grew I distanced myself from your melancholic tune.
Trees were trees, and bore fruit at summer’s twilight
and the friends I made were all of the parts most sweet.
I was content with the woman I met, she blonde-haired and lovely
her free-falling locks sparkling gold in every light,
and her personality as rich and as glossy.
I was content with my life of looking away from spaces
where our human hands couldn’t reach,
demons out of eyesight in the beam of glass city buildings.
But as the dusk of one day segued into the dawn of another,
I grew weary,
each routine just a part of this monotonous human noise
to which I, too had voiced.
And I found myself driving one day when thunder roared in the sky,
rain once again pouring into its shark fin mold.
Your voice came into my head,
the demon hands that had had died trying to take us over with their evil
but overwhelmed by our own brand of hellish wretchedness
lined the freshly paved sidewalk,
and with a twist of the wheel one unreachable space met another.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
Seeing such said-to-be veracity
made spurious by truer voracity
left me in a downward maudlin spiral
caught in the gravity of pejorative thoughts.
(They were right about you)
Shown to be mendacious and meretricious
with such audacious and ignominious cupidity
that is, apparently, insatiable
by external stimulation.
These words are for thee.
(They were right about you)
A
Mistress of Verisimilitude
Sorceress of Perdition
Goddess of Rapacity
Nugatory Luddite
Fatuous Epigone
Specious and unctuous Girl
of gratuitous turpitude
These puerile and rather flavorful words
fueled by seemingly insuperable motifs
arranged in a terse, inimical verse
for a rather insipid person
who will likely never even know of them,
and yet;
such sweet felicity.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
Your interest is piqued
By we the people,
The prosperous poor.
Pacified by things
As simple as passion,
We push,
Pull,
And punch
Our way to the peak.
You're puzzled
By our paedarchy
Where the puerile rule
For they are the prudent.
We are the prosperous poor,
The pauperized children,
Packing our hearts
With dreams of progress
And thoughts of prodigies.
Poor by birth,
Prosperous by personality,
We are the prosperous poor.
We, the children of poverty
Who have been pure only in heart
Will proceed
To prove that the poor
Are prosperous at heart.
The prosperous poor
Are only prosperous
Because they have felt the pain
Of the poor.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
Fish heads for dessert
Confetti-saltwater taffy for lunch
Canned laughter for snack
And peptide bonds for a well balanced breakfast
"But whats for dinner?" says The Windbag
"But whats for dinner?!" screeches The Mimick
Hmm, well we have a choice between the sociocultural criteria and a toxic relationship
"Can't we have popsicles with answer-less riddles on the sticks?" asked the Windbag
"Can't we have popsicles with answer-less riddles on the sticks?!" copied The Mimick
"Leeme alone!" cried the Windbag
"Leeme alone!!" yelled The Mimick
In the end the decided to eat the pockmarks of bird feeding cohorts
They picked their teeth with proven points
Then watched The Windbag play the glockenspiel
Followed by The Mimick on the xylophone
As I put the leftover scraps in Tupperware, making sure to burp it before I put it away
-Tommy Johnson
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
i went to the place we first met
to try and make amends with my ghost
not much has been the same since you came around
im missing you terribly
and sometimes i think i can make out the faint noise
of you screaming you love me into the wind
like you did seven months ago
in a field blooming with bugloss flowers
how puerile of me to not realize
that we were surrounded by the flower of lies
i hate anything that reminds me of you
so i guess i hate everything including myself
i see you in the passenger seats of cars on busy highways
and i see you in empty grocery store aisles
i see you in clouds and tv shows
and newspapers and sunlight
and everything else there is to imagine
because youre all i see now
i gave myself to you the first day we met
but you refused to take me
so now my soul is out wandering
these weakly lit streets
people ask why i see so distant
i turn to them and wonder
if they can see the image of you
kissing me for the first time
in the reflection of my eyes
i also wonder if they can see
the image of me throwing up
and shrieking and sobbing the day you left
im begging someone to fix this absence we created
three months ago when you walked away
i went to the first place we met
to try and make amends with my ghost
but by the time i had arrived it had already moved on
just like you
-m.v.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC
Edgar Allen settled evenings in the room at the rear
at a desk by the window where he could hear
breeze-rustled sycamore leaves sleeping
behind the neighbor’s house next door
through night’s florescent blue moon light,
its mist through low leaden clouds
he imagined the phantom he named Lenore,
and remembered lost Annabelle Lee
amore he'd left laid alone aside a blackened sea
hers, the voice of a tree speaking, hushed,
like distant waves rushed upon shore,
faintly whispering heart-secrets
the ardent couldn’t keep evermore
was it she who sighed with love’s breathless lips
to flicker the flame of a tortured oil lamp’s light
the words born laboring children
with pen put in service to cover past rent,
refill an empty flask of verdant absinthe
for a nine-dollar-half-column poem -
fodder for fickle romantics to tear over
before a performance of Bellini’s new Norma
hardened, our modern hearts
fattened on diets of swollen bellies
that belie the dour misery of starving
they’ve grown sclerotic and cynical,
hungry for suffering flavored substantial -
a greasy disaster to stain the paper wrapper
enclosing depths of the human condition
sophisticates, we dismissed puerile appetite
for honeyed songs of longing,
the ornamented confections of jealous angels
old drunken poets sang
until dark full comes, alone, and we’re small again
then shadows still speak to starry skies
and fairy tales may come alive
to suspend belief with secret dreams
of the dear, lost Annabelle Lee
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 12:59 PM UTC
They do
have a lot to be sorrowful about
their dark mindset understandable
those that grow and wrinkle
in the blink of an eye
hirsute till even the females spot moustaches and beards
and most males are gifted with little sausages
and no great stamina in use
education is optional and ignorance rules ok
the painted hues are catching up
while hometown losers are busking begging money
its all going south for them
so its blame game all the way
so they make it up as they crawl along
hiding their shame in foreign tags
and their cowardice in numbers
too dumb and weak to excel they seek refuge in bullying
as if we haven't got their measures
and know they bathe only once a week at most
my, my! they do have a shedload to lament
their miseries plain to see
so please excuse their puerile defensive scrabbling's
they are poor in heads in pockets and in their minds
Mar 15, 2022
Mar 15, 2022 at 10:28 AM UTC
**gingerly on the knife-point of a problem
my inflated ego slowly was punctured
i heard the hiss of its demystification
in that constricted moment of revelation
a moment that enthused about the demise
of my avid hallucination now laid bare
salvation, the voice of naked truths chanted
is neither in the fig leaves nor in bashfulness
and the humming monotone of desperation
is a boost to candid inactivity and stillness
it is in such big-bore moments that we of
puerile yearnings recognize our childishness
a voice told me to stop tempting fate forthwith
for in truth i was a child with a dangerous toy
and only pampered tutors could stay the course**
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
On this anopisthographic format,
Seems contradistinguishable
To my previous puerile verses,
Disharmonising against contrivances
To be intelligibly indicated,
Through dimunitive confabulations,
As habitually optated by
My personal preferations.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
Are we to wither away, say goodbye to the remote possibility of everything or the acceptance of nothing, damaged as we are from life and what it has thrown at us and how we have adapted to it, where is the strength we thought nothing of when we were young – everything was possible, anything could be overcome.
Now it is harder to start from the beginning to rise from the detritus that has left its smudge on this human plane, to feel warmth from one’s own heart, passions that used to run deep are locked away lost from the moment, will they ever return or are they buried from this reality – what is this reality?
Pure and without stimulus our bodies weak from over indulgence become but empty vessels for our pain to adhere to, but yet exists this mind of memories that fail to disappear.
These very memories fight with the functionality that we accept as our living life mixed with dreams and our experiences laid bare to improve upon the quality of our anger, frustration, pleasure and happiness that engages us again, enabling us the advantage to overcome our apathy and withstand hardship and discomfort, both mentally and physically.
And once again we shout from the highest imagined ground our intentions and with our determination set to turbo drive, we move out on to the superhighway of our existence, battling our demons to achieve our presupposed goals, is this living?
Or merely homage to a bygone set of loosely interpreted doctrine absorbed from our greater consciences. Individuality what has this become? – A freedom to define ones uniqueness?
Is it truly accepted or is it frowned upon, an illusion perhaps, to be held high then massaged by ego, manipulated by the wannabees and dismissed by the pseudo intellectuals for their contrived ill-gotten gains.
Or is it puerile credo that mutates in to a complex melange of all things material, a substitute for the happiness that existed in a previous incarnation of existence, without doubt a causal effect imploding, oblivious to the damage that is caused by the ignorance of consideration and distillation of emotion from love, to the banality of acceptance.
Once again the circle is circumvented and the cycle is begun in earnest until the finality of death is welcomed unto the midst of longing from the soul, in repose before its journey to dance amongst the cosmos.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
Have you ever met a stranger
and known them instantly?
Because baby,
that's how I feel about you.
That serendipitous meeting
was actually a long time coming,
dear.
Because baby,
I think our souls danced
many times before our eyes
chanced upon one another.
Escaping away
to take solar strolls
and traipse along the moon,
dancing within the stars
together.
And baby,
our fortuitous discovery
of each other wasn't chance at all,
but the opportunity for our souls
to rejoice in puerile glee
knowing their person had finally
found their soul's one true match.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:01 PM UTC
A nascent society gluttonously feeds
on the palingenesis of hyaline paragons
forged by stolid and archaic eremites.
A whilom friendship leaks a susurrus
of tristful regret,
while pernicious ***** maunder
puerile attacks on munificent
intellectuals who only wish to
augment risible souls and divagate
from vertiginous roads too often traveled.
Such a chimerical respect for tradition
is too rigid to be broken alone.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:09 PM UTC
Hello Dear Friend,
It’s been a while since I’ve wrote you.
Woes of lost friendship must have driven me here,
in fear of other lanes that is, to this letter.
Laughter and joy has been had, them in lieu of you.
Ewes can ape wolves, as you’ve seen in three years prior,
the choir sang the same triad, this time quiet.
Quite sad— I know, but I’ve spoken enough on me,
for thee I am writing, and to thee I now write:
You must have been busy bringing joy to the world;
or joy to a world, of one I’ve met never.
Another basis, wherefore, I stop this stasis
of silence. We’ll needn’t recall to remember,
for like the migrants of nature, nothing has changed—
only the season, or maybe just the weather—
regardless, the moral stands as thus: History
has shown those of the same feather flock together;
so, as such, we do not lose time in relearning
quirks or behaviors—innate powers take over
Then, again, the inane behavior shall ensue.
Fluid synchronization of minds—now union—
is source to the river highly known for knowledge.
Dialogue sows the seeds, such that comprehension
of grand ideas, which sprout like fruit at the Lethe,
can be harvested to feed the minds of others.
Thoughts that they found too puerile, we now encounter
regularly, and never have we thought to laugh
at any one. Instead we laugh coyly, as we
discuss things of great measure absentmindedly.
The weight of measure felt by us knows few others—
wherefore, I ask: what deserves merit? But One knows,
and those answers lie in the minds of the many.
But here I must stop, for I, quite abashedly,
feel your response to this notion has bearing on
the rest of my premeditated first letter.
With Godspeed I send this, in hopes—with haste, you’ll read
and respond. At last a new dialogue begins.
Remember: those who look— will find,
Your Dearest Friend
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
****** hands
By :Mehrdad Nosrati (Mehreshaer)
After a puerile toil to gain more of their bike
Now are sharing their limbs cut off and diffuse
None of these two brothers would go this far in that
And won’t accept the mangling tank driver’s excuse
***
Our disputations had a pen of words as proof
Not a weapon of brutality you offered
Ghazza kids, our witnesses at the divine court
Testify by the change ****** hands hope covered
***
I’m a shia and a sunni is my brother
With the same moslem’s heart hate your savagery
But not we alone feel like this, real jews, christians
And other believers of overall world boundary
***
You seem not be aware of Ghazza long history
And what a marvelous role it had played during times
So go and read the bravery of Batis against
Alexander, When chanting and clapping for your crimes
***
Once again I and my sunni brother tonight
After saying our common prayer will decide
How to expose your red hands to criminal court
To affect most the history’s heart by our new pride
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 3:46 AM UTC
I am sick of poetry—
its useless, meaningless strings
of words
elegantly dressed in profound tailored suits
of gaudy fabric.
Who is this who speaks against the soul—
ignorant and foolish, deriding the gem
of thoughts vibrantly propounded into motley lines of literary art?
Ha! Literary art?
Similes are like a bad joke,
alliterations are agitating,
personification ***** and,
hyperboles are more horrid than death
Poems are not simply stanzas of well-contrived writing
Of fanciful sentences stretching the mind.
Each letter spells purpose,
Then in the right lighting
Reads entirely different
Yet still masterfully designed
It is simplicity secreted beneath heaps of perplexity
and effortless rhyme,
bombastic diction contorting
the most puerile of deliberations into virtuosity—
two-dimensional make-up of verbiage—
flinging arbitrary words and
lines left
and
right
Christmas
The entire concept is ludicrous.
A
rhyme
goes deeper
than its sound,
and
a single word
normally goes deeper
than its context suggests.
A random
notion may not be
as arbitrary an idea as one
primarily
assumes
it to be.
Nothing is simple about it.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Just like I said
It’s easy to do.
******
Hypocrite
Misled
Piece of ****
Ignorant
Foolish fiend
Virulent
Philistine
Infantile
Aberrant
Juvenile
Miscreant!
True poetry at last!
Stripped down to pure emotion
A lovely middle finger manicured just right
The quintessence of feeling etched with furious care
Thought and emotion woven together to make an unlikely masterpiece
And so it is discovered: the marriage of two conflicting entities can and will engender beauty.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 2:40 AM UTC
And may makes brides of little girls
All dressed up in white
From their toes up to their curls
Purity is advertised
Unbroken ***** on display
A veil to keep her gaze at bay
Offered up unto the lord
Who in his Image did make me
And Eve was put on earth for me
To warm my bed and keep me company
Her sin the loss of paradise
So don't be fooled by children groomed in white
Their bodies born in filth and sin
They robbed me of my garden
And so they owe me everything
Their lives, their eyes, their puerile bodies and their hands
Because as we know
‘Man, he did not come from woman
But woman came from man’
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 2:39 PM UTC
Black Space
(eyes without a face)
Poverty lingers
like an ill gotten taste
giving up her secrets to no man;
teaching lessons in life
at every turn.
Poverty taught me to be frugal
how to beg, borrow or steal
live on £1 a day to eat once a day
the truthful instinctual perusal
the unreal zeal
blocking the thoughts of hunger
the puerile senses;
the basics on how to feel.
In the near dark I found you
sheltering from the storm
under the bridge just like I was
wrapped in mottled harsh cloth
sitting on cardboard for warmth.
You spoke many languages
had a degree in anthropology
and a penchant for gambling
and alcohol;
we shared a bowl
of disregarded noodles
in the rain.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
a dead trumpet, resting on the desiccated lips of a fallen angel, a desolate scorch of hemispheres
blasted and puerile...
primal dross from the furnace of all agonies and heaps of time, hoarding hours in pain to multiply the bias to ill fates as a happiness, her madness has never known
[ on the inside ]
a dread comet, branding the optic nerve of a blank stare
into oblivion
in a closed loop of integrals of self hatred
outlasting the venom of god's scorn, by an order of magnitude
her blight, dwarfing the locust swarm of dead suns
bleeding black ink in journals that document her heart's delirium, in crude states -of silent rage at a billion decibels
[ on the white page ]
a barn door, torn from the hinges of a tempest and marble goats, chiseled from a monolith of dark thoughts
to be sacrificed on the altar of pitch dark
there are sigils that burn in the dense fog, and everywhere a banshee of rogue hope and a siren of fine dreams....
and here there be oceans
[ and no map ]
legions of invisible hornets living in every atom of two red lips
lips that would kiss and be kissed
but seldom disembark from tar pits and windswept tragedies
and fell words that plunder her true thoughts for anything
toxic enough to **** the conversation with a lost god...
bilious fountains of lost joy
sterilize a pregnant pause. and yes
aborts the spirit
[ from no throne ]
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Ever since I started attending this pathetic excuse of a school
I’ve lost sight of my goals
I wanted to see the world (more specifically the museums)
And possibly some really very attractive Asian men,
Walk the entire Wall of China,
Soak in the parts of nature Man hasn’t tampered with;
I could take a picture of a leaf, put a filter on it and BAM!
I can call myself a photographer.
Maybe I might find an intelligent guy,
Have intelligent kids, keep them from falling in line with society
But no
I am stuck with puerile idiots who only act off of their hormonal urges
Half-track minds that only go half the mile and then reverse back to where it started
I don’t dare say they have potential because I might be lying
All they ever do is stare at their phones
Snapchat! Selfies!
Do it for the vine!
Dude, I’d tell you to go **** yourself with a cactus but even then
It still wouldn’t be the dumbest thing you are bound to do.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
A nascent society gluttonously feeds
on the palingenesis of hyaline paragons
forged by stolid and archaic eremites.
A whilom friendship leaks a susurrus
of tristful regret,
while pernicious ***** maunder
puerile attacks on munificent
intellectuals who only wish to
augment risible souls and divagate
from vertiginous roads too often traveled.
Such a chimerical respect for tradition
is too rigid to be broken alone.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:06 PM UTC